Make Me Clean, page 18
Maria gathers herself, then sets about cleaning up after him using the professional stain remover on his white wool rug. Oxygenated bleach. Rubber gloves. She’s always judged that rug – so impractical.
She’s still on her knees when he eventually comes out of the bathroom, his jacket off, his ruined shirt rolled up and a fresh bandage on his left forearm. He offers no explanation.
‘You have done a good job.’ He indicates the rug.
‘It’s easier if you get to it immediately. If it dries it takes longer to shift,’ she replies. She doesn’t tell him how she knows this.
There’s a long pause as they watch each other.
‘How are you, Maria?’
‘Fine, really,’ she tries, very much doubting that she looks fine.
‘Hm.’ He eases himself on to the sofa. ‘Come, sit.’ He gestures to the space next to him.
Awkwardly, she walks over. Maria doesn’t like sitting when there’s work to do. She’s also uneasy about both his injury and the gun.
‘Tell me, what is it?’
Maria sighs. ‘I’m just tired.’ An understatement; she’s shaking with fatigue.
‘A bad night?’ he enquires.
It’s easier to talk about Elsie than her other more pressing concerns. Saying, ‘The old lady I look after. I’m worried about her,’ is so much easier than saying, ‘I’m worried that I’ve killed three men. Why do you need a gun?’
‘This woman, she is a relative?’
‘No. But … She’s like family to me.’ Maria finds trying to explain her relationship with Elsie difficult. She can’t even explain it properly to Del.
‘Why are you worried about her?’
‘It’s her mind.’
Maria can’t stop looking at Balogan’s injured arm.
‘What is the problem? With her mind?’
‘She’s losing it,’ says Maria, annoyed that her voice sounds wobbly as the words came out. Stating the fact so harshly is upsetting.
He nods, as if he understands. ‘My grandmother had problems too, with her mind. It is sad to see, yes?’
Maria nods, unsure of what else might come out of her mouth if she answers.
‘How are you coping with this?’
Maria has often talked to Del and Comfort about Elsie – the practicalities of caring for her – but no one has ever asked Maria how she feels about it.
Because she’s not proper family.
She’s annoyed to feel a prickling of tears threatening and swallows them back. She starts to get up from the sofa, but Balogan reaches out, laying his hand on top of hers.
‘This can be difficult. If you love someone.’ She is very aware that he’s looking at her, his eyes piercing. ‘A lot of stress, yes?’
She tries to say yes but fails. She manages to deflect his concern by asking, ‘What happened with your grandma?’
‘Ah … My little mormor. She got lost.’ He shrugs his massive shoulders. There’s an expression on his face she hasn’t seen before. Tender, almost.
‘Lost?’
‘She went out and didn’t come back. One night. There was a search – the neighbours, the police – but … They found her the next morning. At the back of her old school. By the railings. Like she was waiting to go in for lessons.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘The nights in Sweden are unforgiving. She was frozen.’
‘God!’
Balogan rubs his jaw.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he answers. He holds her gaze with those ice-blue eyes. She sees the hurt in them. She finds her hand reaching up to touch his face and she leans in towards him—
Balogan registers the movement, and he gets up so abruptly he knocks one of his cushions on the floor.
It is like a slap.
‘Oh. Sorry. I’ll just finish up,’ she croaks.
She avoids him in the kitchen. When she returns to the lounge he’s back on the sofa and he seems to be sleeping. She quietly cleans around him, snatching quick looks to check if his eyes are open.
When she’s finished she creeps to the door calling a soft goodbye.
He does not reply.
She hurries to the lift, keen to be out of the building.
The flush of shame keeps her warm on the way home, even though the heater on the bus isn’t on.
What did she expect? He doesn’t see her like that. She hacked off her hair to stop men seeing her that way.
It is best not to complicate things; best to keep things purely professional. That sort of relationship would ruin everything.
And whatever business Balogan’s really into, it’s got to be bad.
She’s mortified that she tried to kiss him, despite the gun.
Or did she try to kiss him because of it?
42
She goes straight back to Elsie’s because Del wants to get off to work first thing. She manages an hour’s doze on the sofa before Elsie wakes up.
They’ve already had their breakfast by the time Del comes through to the kitchen.
The other week he claimed he’d found ‘somewhere’ that took pets. He was very careful not to mention the words ‘care home’. Comfort isn’t coming round today, but she calls Maria to tell her that she has now looked into this place, and she’s discovered that only one cat, or one small dog, is allowed.
Maria is the one who has to break the news.
Elsie immediately starts ranting about ‘Sophie’s bleeding choice!’ and Del’s face falls.
Maria can’t bear the thought of the old girl being without her furry family, so she finally tries to talk to Del about a more formal arrangement – her moving in to look after Elsie full time.
‘I just think she’d be happier, and it would be easier on you if I stayed here on a permanent basis rather than you having to come over all the time.’
‘But you’re not a qualified carer. And you’re not her family,’ says Del, which is the truth, but it hurts.
When he leaves for work, Elsie says, ‘He’s just in a bad mood, darlin’. Take no notice of him. Let’s have a cuppa.’
Now and then, out of the blue, Elsie pipes up with something like, ‘I want you to have this house.’
Today she says, ‘I mean it, Maria. You’ve done more for me than that bastard Nick ever did. Or our Del, come to that. You should have this place.’
And Maria wonders what it would be like to have the house. To have somewhere nice to live at last. To feel secure that no one would dig up the roses and what lies beneath. Or, if Elsie left her something in her will, to have enough cash not to worry about what she eats; to have enough money to do a runner.
The thoughts shame her. She’s a terrible person.
She isn’t sure who has power of attorney for Elsie’s affairs. Nothing to be done if it’s Nick. If it’s Del, Maria knows it will be over his dead body if she ever sees a penny.
She catches herself – over his dead body. The phrase makes her feel nauseous.
Leaving Elsie would break Maria’s heart.
But that’s what she’ll have to do when Del finally sends Elsie away and puts the house up for sale. And Maria knows it is a case of when, not if. What happens when the new owners do a spot of landscape gardening? She’ll have to flee London, change her name, go on the run, work cash in hand somewhere new.
In some ways it might be no worse, really. She’s always looking over her shoulder as it is, afraid that one of Joby’s friends or family will catch up with her and make her pay – although how they’d track her down she has no idea.
If Del sells up, she’ll have to get out quick. Perhaps go to another country, start again? But the fresh start in Spain didn’t go so well, did it?
43
The pain in Maria’s ankle nagged, keeping her awake, and her mood became brittle. She grew brown and sullen as her hair turned white-blonde in the sun. She scrubbed and she scoured like she hated the wagon floor, trying to erase her anger.
Joby returned from the village too drunk to fuck.
‘You wanted to travel. We’re travelling. Jesus, girl, nothing I do makes you happy,’ he snapped.
‘I am happy we’re here but—’
‘Then tell your face, you mardy bitch.’
Sometimes he would cry in his sleep. Grief and guilt are not sexy.
Sometimes he’d try – digging his fingers into her thigh, shoving his tongue in her mouth, rolling on top of her. But he didn’t get hard.
When she tried to kiss him, he’d pull away or change the tone of the kiss, laughing and tickling her, other times he’d say, ‘Stop pestering me, girl!’
Days bled into weeks. Joby showed no interest in her and no interest in returning to England. She wondered how long his cash would last.
She was sitting on the steps outside the caravan chopping vegetables for their dinner when Itzal arrived. He came alone. He sat next to her and helped, and they talked. He told her how he loved his country.
‘I don’t love my country,’ she laughed. ‘Why do you love Spain?’
‘Spain!’ He made an angry gesture. ‘We are not Spain. We are Basque! People here have died for this land. I have friends in prison because they are true Basques.’
She didn’t understand his passion for the accident of where he’d been born, but she liked the conversation. And she liked the warmth of him next to her.
He told her of a time he’d lived in Morocco.
‘Ooh, I’d love to go there,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see a desert. It seems so … romantic.’
‘It will kill you,’ he said, looking serious. ‘The sun will scorch you in the day, but at night you will die of the cold. People write poetry about such places to keep them warm at night. It is beautiful, but also the loneliest place in the world.’
‘I’m lonely here,’ she confessed.
‘I would not leave you alone.’ He smiled.
He gave her the look.
She leaned into him a little.
‘Your hair is like the sun.’ He gently brushed it out of her eyes. Corny. But …
He took her face in his hands then and he kissed her.
She took his hand and led him up the steps into the wagon.
That’s how Joby found them when he came back from the village.
The men swore and fought and Itzal roared off on his motorbike half dressed, and she and Joby fought, and he screamed that she’d ruined his life and she went for him with a pan and as she tried to hit him he pushed her away and she fell awkwardly on her weak ankle and, as she went down she knocked out her tooth on the corner of the cupboard.
She never found that tooth.
She decided she’d leave. But she did nothing. And she continued to do nothing even as her bones told her to run.
He disappeared for two days. She wondered if he’d fallen and broken his neck in the woods. She wondered if she’d care if he had. The opposite of love isn’t hate – it’s boredom.
He returned bouncy with excitement. He seemed to have forgiven her for Itzal. He was all smiles, telling her he had a surprise for her. Then he busied himself in the tiny kitchen, brewing up one of his potions.
‘What’s in that?’ she asked, with little interest.
‘Magic.’ He grinned.
‘Where were you?’ she asked.
He didn’t reply, just handed her a mug sprinkled with what looked like tree bark and gestured for her to try it.
‘Come on, girl. You a chicken?’
She took a sip, wrinkling her nose. It tasted of earth and dead things.
‘What is it?’
‘You’re always after seeing new places. Well, this is the best getaway you’ll ever have, girl.’
‘Drugs?’
‘All natural. Go on.’
She took another sip. Nothing happened.
He started burbling, telling her about the fantastic time he’d had with his new friends – she had no idea who they might be – extolling the virtues of the ’shrooms.
At least he was excited about something. At least they were doing something new together. She took one more sip. She finished the brew. Nothing happened.
And then she slid into a different world—
A Disney world!
The colours! She reached out and she was there, right inside it, Nature!
And she forgot her swollen ankle and she danced by herself as he tended the fire.
The birds called, and she answered.
And at dusk, she flew with the owls.
He sat on the wagon steps looking misty eyed. And she realised she loved him so much! She sat on his knee. He tried to push her hand away, but she undid his zip. His smile evaporated and he stood up abruptly, spilling her on to the ground.
She started laughing – as much about the fall as about his sad limp dick. He glared at her, but she couldn’t stop.
The laugh caught her, and she cackled and whooped; tears in her eyes; a glorious laugh that shook her and left her gasping, juddering, but on it went.
She watched her laughter spool up and away from her lips and she saw each sound slap him – HA! HA! HA! Stab! Stab! Stab! – pierce him, crawling into his ears, slicing him, burrowing under his skin, poisoning him, but it was so delicious. The laugh filled her up entirely and there was nothing she could do to stop herself.
At some point, a wood pigeon cooed its way into her sleep. It was joined by others – a symphony! Then the trills and chirps and squawks of different colours sifted through her fingers and turned to morning shrieks which hurt her head and she felt like she did on the ferry. She heaved.
The mushrooms became his ‘side hustle’.
The weather changed. The sun was all for show – fierce light, no heat. Like his smile – it wasn’t real; his eyes a million miles away.
The heater packed up and the wagon was an ice box as soon as the sun went down. She wondered if she might be the only person to freeze to death in bloody Spain.
So many stars bloomed at dusk. The beauty of the mountain still caught her breath. The owl was her companion then. No answer to its call – the loneliest sound in the world.
*
One night Joby cooked for her for a change and the food he prepared was spicy and warming. Moments like this gave her hope. He might calm down, forgive her for everything; her ankle would get stronger, and then they’d be off together.
She washed up their bowls and got ready for bed. But then she felt it starting.
She went outside and asked him, ‘What did you put in that stew?’ Her lips smiled of their own accord, but she was furious.
‘Just a little. Come on—’
‘You can’t do that. I didn’t want to—’
‘You know you like it really. Look at you! That beautiful smile! I’ve not seen that in a long while. Lighten up, girl.’
After that first comedown, she wasn’t keen to do mushrooms, but she had, a couple of times, just a little, to feel closer to him – as if a shared experience might rekindle what they had in those early days. But the lows – sweaty, sick paranoia – weren’t worth the highs.
She’d told him she wasn’t going to do it again.
He laughed at her as the fire painted shadows across his face.
‘Oh, just fuck off, Joby.’
He was instantly angry. ‘Talk to me like that? Like I’m a dog. Come here!’
‘No!’
‘You’re my wife!’
‘More’s the bloody pity!’
She stalked off and she realised it was more potent this time. How much had he given her?
She vaguely thought, I shouldn’t go too far in this state. But she found herself walking into the forest, into a dream-world, and the notion came to her – I should leave a trail of breadcrumbs.
Unconscious, half conscious, barely conscious.
Out. Of. Her. Skull.
She felt a surge of energy zing through her body. And she knew this power was so bright, so fearfully incandescent, she had to hide it from Joby. She had to hide her light from all the men who would want it for themselves; she had to keep it safe, otherwise they would steal it and turn it against her. Joby’s mother had warned her – men were afraid of a woman’s power; they were so terrified, they damned them as witches and sought to destroy them.
The fear took root, blossoming into a truth – They will burn her alive.
She closed her eyes, but the fire burned brighter inside her head. And then she saw the woman. A figure appeared in the flames. Her mother! But this was not the mother from the old photos she’d kept in her bedroom back at her dad’s – this was a goddess, an icon, with sparks emanating from long flowing hair. A warrior. She rose from the fire with a face that was her mother’s and Lily’s and her own. The halo around the creature’s head hurt Maria’s eyes.
Hoots of birds tangled in the trees.
And she heard Joby’s voice whispering, clawing inside her head: You’re to cook and clean. What’s the point of you if you don’t give me a babby? You’re nothing!
Were those words real? Could she hear his thoughts?
In the vision, he smiled and reached for her, pinning her beneath him as he mounted her – and suddenly it wasn’t Joby but a giant bull rearing and heaving above her – and she screamed.
44
Her life is out of control.
She can’t bear the feeling of being trapped and powerless, so she does one of the few things she can think to do – she calls Brian and asks to go round to see him.
When she gets to the flat, she knocks rather than lets herself in. She is surprised to see it’s Alex who opens the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, addressing them both. But she’s not. Not really. She’s only afraid of what Brian might do.
Brian and Alex sit together on the sofa, which leaves her with the bloody beanbag. She flounders like a beetle on its back as she tries to sit. She’d laugh on another day, in other circumstances, but Brian’s expression chills any impulse to do so.
‘I just wanted to talk,’ she starts.
‘Then talk,’ snaps Brian. She’s never seen this side of him.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.
‘Is that the only thing you’re bothered about?’ He looks disappointed in her.
